


Vir Suledin, Vir Harillen

by brialavellan



Series: Herald of Change [1]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Altered Mental States, Blood and Gore, Demonic Possession, Gen, Mental Breakdown, No Romance, Past Lavellan/Solas, Post-Dragon Age: Inquisition, Post-Trespasser, Suicidal Thoughts, Vallaslin, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-01
Updated: 2016-11-06
Packaged: 2018-05-04 07:37:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 12,830
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5326022
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/brialavellan/pseuds/brialavellan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>‘Manehn Lavellan removed her vallaslin. Now, plagued with doubt, remorse and regret for what she threw away,  she finds a nearby clan to undergo the rituals again, to undo this grave mistake, reaffirm her commitment to her people, and to find some measure of peace and a semblance of redemption.</p><p>Please comment or leave some kudos if you like it! I hope you do and it makes me so happy to hear any feedback from anyone!!</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 'Manehn's search to find a clan willing to let her undergo the rituals has, hopefully, come to an end

It was three days by horse from Halamshiral to the Emerald Graves, but it was the best lead ‘Manehn had heard in weeks. Though an elf ruled the Dales for the first time since their Empire had fallen, the Dalish who wandered these areas still did not stay long enough for her to encounter them.

And she had tried to encounter another clan for weeks.

So when she received a missive from Briala that a Dalish camp had been sighted near Din’an Hanin, she left within hours, leaving behind both of her prosthetics, most of her usual travel gear, and a hastily scribbled letter explaining where she was headed and when she planned to return.

Now, after five days of travel and no sign of any clan within the Emerald Graves after extensive tracking, she was on the verge of turning back.

As she passed the ruins of Din’an Hanin on the way back towards Halamshiral, she slowed her hart and dismounted. It was a small clearing, surrounded by trees, sunlight streaming through the branches and bouncing off the white brick walls. It had been years since she had last visited this place, where they discovered the truth of Red Crossing. She approached a small pillar, one that had been broken by a Venatori brute’s war hammer. A knot began to twist in her throat, and she started to turn away from the sight of shattered artifacts.

She heard a rustle of a branch and whirled around, her dagger already drawn. In the sunlight, she saw the glint of five arrowheads pointed at her chest, and five pairs of sharp and suspicious eyes hidden between the branches.

“Aneth ara” she said, her voice ringing with false confidence. “I was looking for your clan. Can you take me to your Keeper?”

After a short pause and familiar murmuring, five bowstrings loosened and five Dalish elves clamored around their sister in greetings. ‘Manehn sighed in relief. Their faces were painted too, but the smiles were always genuine.

“Aneth ara, da’len,” the youngest spoke among them, his face freshly marked with Dirthamen’s vallaslin. “I apologize, these woods have become dangerous, with the shemlen and flat-ears sending hunting parties into these woods.” He looked at the others, nodding in approval. “We could not take chances.”

“It is no trouble, lethallin,” she corrected him. “I was actually looking for your clan. May I speak with your Keeper?”

His eyebrows furrowed slightly, but he did not push the matter.

“Keeper Eshna? Yes of course, we’ll take you to her right away.”

 

* * *

 

The camp they led ‘Manehn to was far larger than even she expected, and bustling with activity. Children scampered around the still-packed aravels while the hearthmistress sang a blessing for Sylaise. Hunters gathered around the fire, sharpening sticks for arrows while gently prodding each other with pointed fingers and deprecating jokes. Seared ram bubbled on top of a crackling fire, and the cooks were bickering about how best to seal the juices in the meat and when to add the herbs.

These were the sounds ‘Manehn missed most, and she took them in and clung tightly. She closed her eyes, struggling to remember the faces of her clan, but, like her clan, the memories were gone, faded into nothing.

A voice finally shook her from her daydream. “I’m sorry, lethallan, do you mind if I ask you a few questions while we wait for the Keeper?”

She opened her eyes and saw the hunter from before peering at her.

“If you wish.”

He offered that she sit, and she obliged. He took a seat next to her. “I hope I’m not too much of a bother, I’ve always wanted to get a chance to speak with a flat ear…”

“No, I’m not a – I was born to the Dalish.”

He looked back at the fire to reconsider, “Then I am curious why Clan Lavellan sent someone so young to us.”

“Don’t let my lack of vallaslin fool you, lethallin,” ‘Manehn muttered, “I’m definitely not that young.”

“Of course, I assume your…” he motioned at the empty sleeve where her left arm once was “…condition makes the tasks you must undertake for adulthood impossible.”

“It is a minor limitation, not a complete prohibition,” she snapped, “and I have been a hunter for quite some time.”

The young hunter jumped at her biting remark, “I shouldn’t have implied – Ir abelas. Bel abelas. Na lasa enas’athim?”

“Ar lasa ghilan,” she replied. “Ma serannas.”

“I just have never seen a Dalish elf born of the people without their vallaslin unless they were very young or were flat-ears.” He continued. He stroked his cheek where the lines of his vallaslin trailed towards his chin. “I got my vallaslin last week. It didn’t hurt as much as I thought – It helps if you remember our oath and remember the Creators.”

He flashed a small smile. “It was the best day of my life. The swelling didn’t go down for a week, but I’m an adult now, serving the clan, protecting them, helping our people.”

‘Manehn stared at the eager young hunter, beaming with pride. She remembered the first time she received her vallaslin. She remembered her father’s eyes, alight with pride and love for his now-grown daughter. She remembered her mother’s small smile of approval, rarely granted and hard-earned. 

And she had thrown them away. And everything they meant to her.

“You have every right to be proud,” she told him. “Treasure them and everything they represent.”

He bowed his head in gratitude. “Ma serannas, lethallan. You have been too kind, in spite of my ignorant remarks.” They both looked over towards the hearth and saw the Keeper approaching, led by two of the hunters. Her milky eyes searched for their voices.

“Da’enasal? Are you talking our guest’s ears off?” she teased, “that’s Hahren’s job, you’re still apprenticing.”

The hunter sprung up instantly and lowered his gaze. “Ir abelas, Keeper.”

“I was just teasing, da’len,” she chuckled, reaching out for his shoulder with frail arms. She found it and clasped his shoulder, giving it a warm, small squeeze. “I hope you made our guest feel welcomed.”

“He did,” ‘Manehn stood and bowed her head. “Aneth ara, Keeper Eshna. I appreciate your welcome and hospitality.”

“Now hold on just a moment!” she said, putting her hands on her hips. “That voice….sounds really familiar. What is your clan, da’len?”

“Clan Lavellan.”

The young hunters began to scrutinize her at the mention of her clan name, but they said nothing.

“Do you mind if I take a look at you?” she placed her gnarled hands on ‘Manehn’s face, smoothing her skin over with her thumbs. A small spark of familiarity ignited in the woman’s eyes and her thin lips widened into a wicked grin. “Is this Deshanna’s girl?” she asked. “Sounds like her, though you don’t look a damn thing like her, except for that big nose.”

“You knew my mother?” ‘Manehn asked.

“Knew her?” she said, cackling with delight, “Deshanna was the snarkiest son-of-a-bitch for a Second I ever had the pleasure of meeting! And a good friend, too. I saw her last not too long after you were born, right after she became Keeper herself. You could barely pull a bowstring, but you already had a mouth.”

“Now if you’ll do me a favor and let me have your arm, I’ll need you to lead me to my aravel so we can talk about what brings you here.”

 

* * *

 

“I hope you’ve made yourself comfortable,” Keeper Eshna said as ‘Manehn situated herself. “Didn’t think the Inquisitor was gonna make a surprise appearance to any Dalish clan, frankly.”

‘Manehn’s eyes widened. She fumbled for a response, “this isn’t exactly Inquisitor business-related. And how do you know I’m Inquisitor?”

“Well, you were a Dalish elf is leading some an army of shemlen against some darkspawn magister asshole tearing up the place, so you tended to stick out a bit. Not enough for the rest of the clan to recognize you, but the last message I received from Deshanna told me what happened to you. Never thought I’d see her lose it till I got that message, let me tell you….”

The Keeper reached for a small kettle filled with water and sweet-smelling herbs. “Didn’t hear too much from her – then I heard about Wycome.” ‘Manehn lowered her head, straining to stop the tears that lingered at the edges.

“Ir abelas, da’len,” the Keeper said, after a short pause. “It probably means little after so many years, but there it is.”

‘Manehn cleared her throat, “It means more that you guessed.”

“But after that Council business, I heard a lot more about you. Heard you tore up your own Inquisition, told all those shemlen nobles where they could shove their shit while doing it, and I heard you were headed this way.” She placed her hands, glowing with fire magic, against the kettle, making the water come to a rolling boil.

“So you know about So – Fen’harel? What we uncovered at the Council?”

“I’ve heard the rumors, but only you have the truth. Whatever he decided to tell you as truth, that is.” She placed the kettle between them and steepled her fingers. “Two of our hunters and our Second, Tamriel, disappeared a few weeks ago. Then I heard all about this Council and Fen’harel walking among us…well, anyway, I’ve sent out hunters to look for them, but when I heard the warning about ‘agents of Fen’harel’…”

‘Manehn looked away. “It’s true. His agents infiltrated the Inquisition, and many elves, Dalish and city, disappeared after we uncovered him and his plans. Some of the nobles have organized, consulting with us…”

“And the other rumors?”

She kept her head down. “Which ones?”

“Oh c’mon, I’m an old woman, you don’t have to be coy about it,” she cackled, attempting to add levity to a heavy mood. “It’s the one that has half the Keepers screaming about how you’re a traitor, an enemy of the People, and would get your ass chased out of every clan you tried to come near.”

Her face began to burn with shame, but she glared directly into the Keeper’s eyes, lips quivering with rage. “Yes, it’s true,” her voice began to quake, “But I am not a traitor, I never abandoned the People, and I **will** stop him.” The Keeper said nothing. She reached for two small cups, and poured the now fragrant and green-tinged tea into them. She offered a cup and ‘Manehn took it into her shaking hands. The cup was near scalding, and the burning sensation prickled at her palms, but she clutched it tighter.

The Keeper took a sip of her tea and placed the cup beside her. “Now, I’m not going to pretend I understand what happened and frankly, I don’t like it.” She paused, clearing her throat to tamp down her anger. “But you’re one of us, and as much a savior to us as the shemlen. The Breach wouldn’t have spared us.”

“And neither will Fen’harel, it seems.” ‘Manehn whispered, a stray thought accidently given voice.

“No shit!” the Keeper snorted. “He never cared about the People. Did you already forget the story of the Betrayal? Hahrens never shut up about it, it’s part of the job, I doubt you never heard it.”

“He said…”

“Da’len…” the hard wrinkles around her irises softened into a maternal gaze, “he told you his side of the story to an event only he was alive to see. He can say whatever the hell he wants, but as far as I am concerned, we’re right. He betrayed us and destroyed our empire. And he will destroy what remains of us if he succeeds.”

‘Manehn nodded.

“He’s not a man to pity, he’s a god to fear.”

For a while, both were silent, both trying to process what had been spoken between them. Keeper Eshna went first, “Now, I get the feeling that you didn’t come here just to incriminate yourself and state the obvious.”

‘Manehn took a sip of tea and swallowed hard, the cup still tight in her hands and her palms numb with pain.

“I wanted to ask, if you would grant this, to allow me to undergo the rituals and receive the vallaslin.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translations:
> 
> “Ir abelas. Bel abelas. Na lasa ma enas’athim?” = I am sorry. Many apologies. Can you grant me forgiveness?
> 
> Enas'athim - forgiveness (lit. favor + humility) [note: I made this word up - this is not in Bioware’s canon]
> 
> "Ar lasa ghilan” = I forgive you (lit. I grant guidance)


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ‘Manehn Lavellan begins undergoing the rituals to receive new vallaslin. However, this process is stirring up some uncomfortable truths and painful parts of her past, not just for herself, but for the clan that has taken her in.

“OK, now what I don’t understand is why you would give your vallaslin in the first place.”

‘Manehn paused. What answer could she give? What could she say to justify what she had done? All she remembered was fury and regret. She remembered looking at her bare face and her cheeks burning with shame, the shame that burned so hot that it showed through her dark brown skin, whispered words of idiocy and betrayal of everything she cared about. She remembered gritted teeth and tears held back as she demanded an answer for what Solas had done.

Then, she remembered the words that cut through sharper than a sword, made her heart burn and stomach churn as she confronted the last vestige of the ancients, those that had seen and served Mythal in her full glory.  

_You are not my people._

She remembers sad, thoughtful eyes that radiated love, whispering “you deserve better” as he held her close. She wanted to shed the burden of carrying and defending the remains of a dying culture, a dying people, branded like animals but treated worse than chattel. Kept as slaves, kept as pets.

She deserved better than this. They all did.  

But none of these answers would suffice.

‘Manehn shrugged, “Apparently they were slave markings….”

Keeper Eshna scoffed. “So? Why do I give a shit? They aren’t slave markings anymore.”

‘Manehn paused. “We talk about preserving the past all the time, I figured your opinion would be –”

“– that we should keep slaves because ‘the ancient elves did it’?” she retorted. “I gotta find out what exactly the ancients elves  _did_  before I agree to whatever weird shit they were into,” Keeper Eshna said, cackling at her own joke.

‘Manehn laughed. “True, but I will say I’m surprised to hear a Keeper say that.”

“You’ve never sat in on a Hahren'al,” Eshna said, “You’d be surprised at how far some will go to chase a fantasy version of something long dead and gone.”

“I haven’t heard anything as horrifying as mass murder,” ‘Manehn said. “Well… _yet_.”

Keeper Eshna nodded, “And enough of my fellows agree, at least enough to serve as his agents.”

She paused for a few moments, letting the solemn silence linger.

Finally, Keeper Eshna spoke.

“But that’s not why you did it. Removed your vallaslin, I mean. You don’t wanna tell me, but I don’t need to hear the real reason.”

She stopped and leaned forward, and clasped ‘Manehn’s shoulder, giving that same small, affectionate squeeze as she stared directly into her eyes.

“How long have you carried this burden, da’len? Separated from us for so long?”

‘“Too long….” she said, “but if someone’s gotta save the world,  _again_ , I guess I’ll be the one to do it.”

“Well, it’s not like anyone else is exactly volunteering,” Eshna said, “but at least get a moment’s respite here. Being in the clan’s presence, even as isolated as you’ll be, might do you some good.”

“I’ll get Hahren Ellathim. We can start today. Let’s get out of this thing, and I’ll see if I can get him to shut up for 5 seconds and come over here.”

 

* * *

 

It was only a few minutes before Keeper Eshna returned with her hand resting on the arm of the hahren. He glared at her with beady eyes, his bushy white eyebrows knotted into a perpetual frown as he stared down the Inquisitor.

“This is Hahren Ellathim. He will also be overseeing this ceremony. He will also be the one applying the vallaslin instead of me because I like being the only blind one around here.”

“Though I don’t see the point of re-applying the sacred inks and the sacred symbols to one who threw them away so callously.” he snapped.

“Oh shush, you ass!” Eshna chided him. “You’re gonna get a chance to shove a needle in her face, do you need to add insult to injury?”

Ellathim looked at Eshna with a slight tinge of exasperation. “My apologies, I’m sure you think it’s perfectly acceptable.”

‘Manehn looked away and rolled her eyes, biting her lip to calm her anger.

Eshna cleared her throat and ‘Manehn turned back towards her. “Now, usually, you would have presented the pelt of an animal you killed by yourself.”

“Yeah, I don’t think you want pelts from anything I’ve killed recently.” 'Manehn joked.

“We would also announce your intention and your passage into the adulthood, but considering the circumstances…”

“I don’t really like being the center of attention either.”

Ellathim groaned, “Could you at least pretend you’re taking this seriously, seth'len?”

‘Manehn clenched her teeth shut, desperate to shout him down, desperate to defend herself from this barrage, these accusatory and derogatory remarks.

Ellathim continued, “Though we have decided to amend the sacred ceremony for your  _convenience_ , we will at least make sure you travel the Vir Elaravel, and rediscover the People.”

He paused. “You will go to the aravel where we keep the shrines, dedicated to our pantheon. There, you will dream, as our ancestors did in the time of Elvhenan. You will meditate on our ways, the ways of the People, the last Elvhen. For three days, you will stay here, to prove your fortitude and your dedication, to prove your mastery of your body, your mind and your spirit.”

“Then, if you pass these tests, we shall apply the vallaslin, and mark you as one the People.”

“See, nothing to worry about, da’len.” Eshna said with a nod and a wry grin. “Nothing new to you. The sacred meals still taste like shit, I can promise that.”

“Please, Eshna,” Hahren Ellathim said, with a weary indignation. “I’m trying to stress the importance of this momentous occasion. There is more to be said.”

“Ellathim, This ceremony is not as momentous when you do it more than once. And she’s not going to have a full ceremony if you keep talking -”  

“Umm, can we start now? It’s close to evening.” ‘Manehn interrupted.

“Of course you may ‘go now’.” Ellathim huffed. “Go to the tent at the edge of camp. Eshna will visit you tonight.”

‘Manehn turned towards the tent, but Keeper Eshna stopped her.

“One last thing: You’re only doing this to fix what you think was a mistake, but you should treat this like the first time you received your vallaslin. A lot has changed for you. Reflect on who you have become. Maybe another of the Creators speaks to you.”

‘Manehn nodded.

“Just keep it in mind, da’len.”

 

* * *

 

She made her way to the aravel and crawled inside, making sure to duck her head. The aravel was small, yet familiar. Intricate carvings lined the wooden beams and small charms hung on the walls. Along the far side, tucked in the back was an altar, set up with eight small statues, dedicated to the Creators. As she stared at each one, her throat began to clench and her stomach churn. She used to find peace when she prayed to these gods. When she sang a hymn to Sylaise. When she prayed to Mythal to ask for justice. When she thanked Andruil for a bountiful hunt. She did not wear her vallaslin for the Creators, nor would she wear them for these false gods.

She quickly turned away from the altar and closed her eyes. The lingering and familiar smell of wood, herbs and incense filled her nostrils, slowed her racing heart, and calmed her still simmering rage. She expected some antagonizing comments, some rancor, even a few insults hurled her way. “Traitor” was a familiar word frequently tied in at the mention of Inquisitor Lavellan.

What she did not expect were the words to still sting. What she did not expect was to feel like a stranger even among those who treated her as sister, who called her da’len and lethallan.

_This must be what it feels like to be a flat ea – a non-Dalish._

A loud shriek tore her from her thoughts. She had already drawn her dagger, still attached to her belt, before she realized it was a toddler’s shriek of laughter. The shriek was replaced by loud laughter and teasing and the patter of feet darting between aravels.

It was evening now. The clan was gathering around the hearth. She saw the faint flicker of orange and red through the thin cloth that covered the aravel, heard the crackle of flames, intertwining with the nickering of the halla. She heard these Dalish, her people, laughing, arguing, joking with each other, loving, hating,  _living_.

They were alive.

But her clan….

She burrowed her head between her legs and curled into a ball. Her heart began to spasm and her lungs tighten in her chest. She tried to breathe, tried to pace it, but her breath escaped her lips in haggard wisps. The tent seemed to shrink around her, the air felt stifling, prickled her skin, hot to the touch….she needed to get out, flee to the farthest corner of Thedas, it had been so long, she couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think.

They were gone. Hot tears began to fall, her ragged breathing replaced by small whimpers as she fought back tears.

They were all gone.

She heard plodding footsteps coming towards her tent, and bolted upright. She brushed the tears away and took a few breaths, balling her right hand into a tight fist that forced her nails into her palm.

Eshna crept into the tent, carrying a small pouch, a vial of oil and a small bit of kindling in her arms.

“We’re running a bit behind schedule, but I want to get you started.” She started piling the kindling at the center of the aravel and lit it with a quick flick of her wrist.

She opened the vial and poured the oil into her hands, rubbing them furiously.

“Help me find your face so I’m not groping around like an idiot.” She joked. ‘Manehn leaned forward and gently took her wrists and pulled them towards her face.

The Keeper began to apply the oil, her paper thin skin and bony fingers kneading the oils deep into ‘Manehn’s skin while she spoke.

“Tonight, reflect on who you were. Born to the People, the last of the true Elvhen. Reflect on what we have taught you, the Oath of the Dales, the tales of our Creators. Reflect on what makes you Dalish.”

Finally, she opened the small pouch and pulled out a handful of bitter smelling herbs. She sprinkled them over the fire. The small orange flames flashed emerald green and then settled into a slow burn, the smoke thickening and the smell sharpening.

“Now I’m going to get out of here. Remember what you see,” the Keeper said as she hurried out of the tent.

‘Manehn closed her eyes and let herself slip into a deep sleep.

 

* * *

 

_The popping of a freshly lit fire at the center of the camp on a spring evening. Soft grass settles between her toes. Childlike squeals and raucous laughter from elves young and old. A small one approaches her, her tight, coarse coils tied in into small twists, the ends decorated with small beads that clack against each other as she scurries up. ‘Manehn sweeps her into her arms in a tight hug and sets her down. She begs “Manehn to play with her. She grabs her hand and leads her towards the center of the hearth, towards the fire._

_The fire erupts. Laughter turns to cackling, squeals to screams. Her little sister’s hand slips away as she bolts into the fire. She tries to grab her, pull her back, but the flames sear her eyes. She reels back in pain, but they are gone._

_Only bodies remain, lifeless eyes pierced with human swords and human arrows, gazing at the sky in horror. Snow falls on the flowering ground and a hollow wind whistles through now leafless trees. She runs towards the hearth, seeking her sister and mother, screaming into the wind, eyes stinging from flame and tears._

_She looks at the sky and sees a familiar swirl of green and the crackle of magic. Her left hand erupts with an agonizing pain and she falls to the ground, screaming their names, tears streaming down her face. She would avenge them. She would kill them all._

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So a couple of things (down here because I didn't want to interrupt flow)
> 
> I had to change some tags because this chapter is a bit more violent and "adult" than the previous chapter so I've added some trigger warnings in the tags.
> 
> Also, leave kudos and comments if you like it! I'm glad some people seem to really like it! It's my first "long fic" (aka, anything longer than one chapter or a drabble) so thanks so much for the kudos!
> 
> ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
> 
> Translations:
> 
> Vir Elaravel = Way of the People, describes the three day ritual one undergoes right before receiving the vallaslin (lit. “path elvhen journey”) [again: a made-up word, non canonical]
> 
> Seth'len = lit. thin blood. An extreme insult and slur directed specifically to Dalish elves, implying they are not "truly" Dalish or that they have abandoned their people [non canonical]


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ‘Manehn Lavellan begins undergoing the rituals to receive new vallaslin. Now, she has to confront her past with Solas, and the elves that label her a traitor for it.

The sun had already climbed past the treetops when ‘Manehn bolted from her sleep, her breathing ragged and burning.

She rubbed her temples and took deep breathes, trying to slow her heart, trying to push the painful memories she had kept down, hidden away, where no one except Cole could see them.

Where she couldn’t face them anymore. 

The dreams were always vivid when undergoing the Vir Elaravel. She knew this. That is why they waited until the mind was clear and the will was strong, when the tumult of adolescence was fading away.

And it was not the first time she would wake gasping for breath. It was not even the first time she was forced awake by things left unspoken and unhealed.

Cole always asked her to let him help heal her pain. Her pain was still sharp, stabbing, on the surface, stinging, shining, bright and brilliant, so loud he could still hear, though he had begun to lose connection to the Fade.

But he didn’t need what remained of Compassion. Everyone could still see it. Her rapid-fire jokes and raucous laughter, her gentle teasing, and even her occasional flirty remark directed at the now Divine Victoria, couldn’t mask her haunted eyes.

She could hear their concern all the time. In the way Vivienne held her hand and called her “darling” as she and Dorian examined the slowly growing anchor. In the small pauses between conversation when Sera and ‘Manehn sat on the roof, eating the first cookies Sera had made by herself. In the way Bull asked her if she wanted to grab a drink at the tavern, followed by a small chuckle because he already knew the answer.

But eventually, the hurt did heal. What did not heal could be hidden.

Until the Exalted Council.

Until she confronted Solas and learned that the man she had loved was gone, and that The Dread Wolf wore his face - The Great Betrayer and God of Misfortune, who cared nothing for the People. Not enough that he would not sacrifice this world. Not enough that he would not sacrifice her, to attempt to restore what was.

Then the wound of his leaving was ripped open, as sharp as the pain from a flaring Anchor that left her skin sundered and raw and burning.  

But the pain of the Anchor would always pale in comparison to the pain she could inflict on herself.

 

* * *

 

When the sun had reached its highest point, Hahren Ellathim strode over to the tent, grumbling as he ducked into the aravel and settled in front of ‘Manehn.

He handed her a small bowl filled with boiled herbs and a small cup of water. She took it with a small nod of appreciation and tore into it, ignoring her revulsion at the stringy, bitter leaves and tepid water that would be her only meal for the next couple of days - a jarring contrast to the sweet meats, petit fours, and abundance of wine that flowed from Skyhold’s kitchens.

When she was finished, she looked up at the hahren, his face still scrunched in disgust.

“Aneth ara, hahren” she said, keeping her tone as even as possible.

“Your contempt and your arrogance is showing, seth’len”

“Did you only come here to throw cheap slurs, or do you actually serve a purpose?!” ‘Manehn snapped at him, her eyes glinting like daggers as she glared into his sneering face.

“You should worry about restraining that temper of yours. I would have said you should leave and keep your face bare. And be rightfully shamed for your flippant disregard of your culture. But if such a name still hurts, then maybe you aren’t completely beyond saving.”

He cleared his throat, silencing ‘Manehn’s attempted protest, and began to speak.

“As Dalish, we are the keepers of lost lore. We are what remains of our greatest Empires. We remember what we were, what we were in our full glory. We remember Elvhenan, and how it was lost to us.”

‘Manehn shuddered as he spoke. She had heard this story many times, from her old clan’s hahren, and from her mother. She told it to the children around the campfire, told the story to her baby sister.

She kept this story close to her heart, a shield to remind her that she was more than knife-ear, more than rabbit. A reminder of what they had lost, and what they wanted to restore. Magnificent wonders like the Temple of Mythal, and the remains of Vir Dirthara. All of it, lost to the Veil.

Wonders that Fen’harel had destroyed. Wonders that Fen’harel was trying to restore. Wonders the elvhen would never see if he succeeded.

“Well, are you going to tell me the story?” Ellathim said, crossing his arms and snapping ‘Manehn out of her thoughts. “Or have you forgotten the tale of Elvhenan and our fall so quickly?”

‘Manehn laughed, a rueful timbre in her voice, “I know more about Elvhenan and the Fall than you will _ever_ understand. Or believe. Have you seen the remains of our Empire with your own eyes? Have you spoken with our gods yourself?”

She paused. “I could tell you the story, but it will not necessarily be the one you want to hear…..”

Ellathim chuckled at her defiance. “Such a fire in your eyes, desperate to shield yourself from your guilt. You’ve cavorted with the Great Betrayer himself, but you have no secret knowledge. You have mere confirmation. And you have only yourself to blame for your foolishness. “

‘Manehn began to quake with fury and clenched her fist tight, but said nothing.

“Our tale is true, according to your ‘discoveries’. I always believed because I never forgot myself, my people, and my culture. But your faith and your dedication were always weak. You were not ready. You failed in the truest test of resolve. You were still a child, da’len, not ready for the vallaslin. And everything that means.”

She lowered her head, voice reduced to a mere whisper. Ellathim smiled at her capitulation, but his face, which had been locked in a perpetual scowl since she had arrived, softened slightly.

“I am not here purely to berate you. I need you to understand what you have done, who you have harmed, and what you need to atone for, if you should return to the People once more.”

‘Manehn looked at her arm, the one that bore the Anchor. The one that had been severed, in order to save her life.

Another part of her that Solas had taken away.

She began to speak.

“Before the ages were named or numbered, our people were glorious and eternal and never-changing….”

She recited the mantra, his glowering softened as he listened. She savored this moment, pretending that these words were true and that she could believe as fiercely as he did.

When she had finished, she looked up once more and caught a tinge of a smile at the corners of Ellathim’s lips.

“Thank you, da’len,” he said, and he crawled out of the tent, leaving ‘Manehn with the uncomfortable silence.

 

* * *

 

Keeper Eshna had even barely entered the aravel later that night, with her herbs and oils, before 'Manehn began to speak.

“He’s an incorrigible _ass._ ”

Eshna sighed. “Da’len, you’re supposed to be meditating on the Creators and the People.”

“I can meditate on more than two things.”

Eshna shook her head and chuckled. “Just like your mother, “she said, “a smartass, through and through. He’s always been an ass, but he means well. Well, _he_ thinks he means well. I could try telling him otherwise, but he won’t listen, and he’s too old to even try and pretend he will."

She tapped ‘Manehn’s shoulder.

“I appreciate your being conciliatory in the end.”

‘Manehn shrugged at the compliment.

“Well, I didn’t come here expecting endless ass-kissing and backstabbing.”

 She paused for a second, reviewing her earlier confrontation, how Ellathim had glowered at her with a renewed viciousness, the extra insults and snide remarks, the way he spat the word “cavorted” at her….

“Did you tell him?!”

The Keeper opened the small vial of oil, and began to rub her hands.  “Tell him what, da’len?”

“About what I told you, the rumors….and the truth to them? Did you tell him???”

The Keeper stopped for a moment, her head hanging. “Da’len. He believes it to be true. Whether it is actually true or not is irrelevant to almost all of them. But only he and I know who you are. And we intend to keep it this way.”

‘Manehn laughed, a sinister spiteful laugh that gave Eshna goosebumps. “That’s it?! Unknowingly slept with the Dread Wolf is a greater crime to all of you than Leader of the Inquisition or ally to the Chantry? Or putting the Empress who burned Halamshiral back on the throne and just hoping an Elven Marquise could somehow maybe make her _not_ do it again and maybe give us some rights?”

Eshna tried to speak, but ‘Manehn stopped her.

“I can list a whole host of reasons why you should think me a traitor or hate me, even after what I’ve accomplished, that are better than ‘poor judge of character’.”

“Then if you know _damn_ good and well that there are other reasons to hate you, then take a damn second and think that maybe, for _both_ of us, that maybe those are the reasons we don’t trust you.” Eshna said, a slight snarl in her voice.

‘Manehn scoffed, “Don’t pretend it doesn’t play a pretty big part, Eshna. I still remember the oath, you know, the part where I’m supposed to fear and hate him. I did the exact opposite of what, and _who_ , a good Dalish elf does.”

Eshna said nothing in response. She took 'Manehn’s face in her hands and began to apply the oils, her fingers curled like claws, pressing harder into her skin this time.

“Tonight, reflect on who you are. Born to the People, the last of the true Elvhen. Reflect on what has made you the person you are, what we have taught you and what it means to you, how you will uphold these tenets. Reflect on what makes you Dalish.”

She quickly started a small fire. “Remember what you see. Be prepared for what comes next,” she said as she stormed out.

 

* * *

 

_A small waterfall and the dampness of the Fereldan countryside. She approaches the cove, guarded by great white halla statues, his hand intertwined with hers. She looks up and see him smiling. He caresses her face and she takes his hands in hers. He pulls her close and holds her, a soft whisper at her ear, tinged with longing and love._

_“Ar lasa mala revas.”_

_They kiss, his hands pressed at her back, her hands wrapped around his neck. His kisses linger on her lips and trail down her neck as he holds her closer, tighter, longing for her and loving her and desperate to keep her. She wants this, wants him, loves him more than she thought she could, more than she wanted to…_

_A sharp pain jerks her from him, and she feels a blade pierce her side and slide between her ribs. She clutches at the wound, oozing hot blood, her shirt drenched in red. He lets her go and she crumples to the ground, her lungs burning. She wants to scream betrayal and vow vengeance but only blood comes up from her lips._

_“Ir abelas, vhenan.”_

_She tries to seize him, stop him, but she grabs at empty space as he walks away. She curls up, clasping her ribs, feels her life slipping, her eyes heavy with eternal sleep but she tries to catch a last glimpse. A snarling wolf with seven red eyes stands over her, ready to pounce._

_She utters her last words._

_“I will stop you.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't think I've included any words this time that need translation but, for reference:
> 
> Vir Elaravel = Way of the People, describes the three day ritual one undergoes right before receiving the vallaslin (lit. “path elvhen journey”) [again: a made-up word, non canonical]
> 
> Seth'len = lit. thin blood. An extreme insult and slur directed specifically to Dalish elves, implying they are not "truly" Dalish or that they have abandoned their people [non canonical]
> 
> Vir Dirthara = An ancient elven library, suspended between the waking world and the Fade. Encountered during Trespasser (for those who haven't played the DLC)


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Clan learns the Inquisitor is here, ‘Manehn’s life is endangered in more ways than one, and The First, Davhalla, sets ‘Manehn straight with some hard truths.

It was not the rising sun that finally roused ‘Manehn from her tormented sleep.

It was the taste of salt and iron, and the feel of cloth in a soft and gentle hand, wiping sweat from her brow and blood from her mouth.

It was Eshna and another woman, talking over her in hushed and hurried whispers.

She tried to sit up, but the soft hands gently pulled her back.

“Careful, lethallan.”

She tilted her head back towards the soothing voice above her. It came from a younger woman with long locs and a broad face marked with June’s vallaslin. She looked down at ‘Manehn with a small, warm smile.

“Do not push yourself. The ritual alone is already arduous enough.”

“Listen to Davhalla,” Eshna chimed in, sitting at her side. “You came here for the Vir Elaravel, not a damn funeral. And I’m not sending back a possessed Inquisitor.”

“Possessed?!” ‘Manehn bolted up, ignoring the burning in her chest, the blood dripping from her lips, the vicious pounding in her head, and the hands trying to coax her back into lying down.

“We believe you attracted something from the Beyond, something that attempted to possess you.” Davhalla said, gently rubbing her back as ‘Manehn coughed. “This ritual allows those without the gift to touch the Beyond. Only for a moment, and never enough to call on the power from the Beyond, or, hopefully, to attract spirits who might wish harm. Only enough to find your true self, the self hidden within you in the shell of your physical body.”

‘Manehn didn’t respond. She tried to steady her breath, spitting out the remaining bits of blood and bile that dribbled from her lips into the now-soiled cloth. Eshna and Davhalla merely waited for the fits of coughing to end.

After a while, ‘Manehn finally spoke. “I understand. But I never had the gift in the first place. And I didn’t have this problem before….or the kind of visions I’m seeing.”

“But we’ve also never done the ritual on someone who’s visited the Beyond in their physical form.” Davhalla shifted to ‘Manehn’s side, her eyes scrutinizing ‘Manehn’s face. “More than that…..could you not part the Veil yourself?”

“But I can’t anymore.” ‘Manehn countered. “The Anchor…..it almost killed me. And it’s gone. Along with half of my arm, if you didn’t notice already.”

Davhalla’s gaze did not waver. “Regardless, your connection to the Beyond is more sensitive than before. You were able to fight off whatever you attracted this time. I know the tales. You have fought off demons and nightmares, but you don’t know how to harness your will as a weapon. Not like we do.”

“And our hunters don’t have much experience fighting full fledged abominations,” Eshna said, with uncharacteristic seriousness as a dark pallor settled over her pale and heavily lined face.

“Though I’m sure half of your hunters would be eager to cut me down.” ‘Manehn retorted.

“Yeah, I can’t really argue that one.” Eshna replied with a heavy sigh.

Davhalla shook her head, her lips beginning to quiver with rage. “Not half of them. Only Fen’an. He was always a troublemaker, always ready to fight. And how many times has Da’enansal had to fend off their prying already? You’ll let them harass my little brother to no end to avoid a fight? We’re ALREADY fighting. They are ALREADY agitated!"

She paused and looked at ‘Manehn. “I would not be surprised if they drew a blade on you.” She whipped her head back towards Eshna, her voice lowered to a dangerous whisper. “And we should not allow this discord to continue.”

“We’ve had this argument already, Davhalla!” Eshna snapped. “She stays hidden. Or maybe, she goes —”

“No!” ‘Manehn shouted at them both, triggering another violent bout of coughing. “Do not make decisions for me. I will see this through.”

“I’ve got nothing personal against you, Inquisitor.” Eshna said, “but you probably won’t have a choice. Especially if you can’t finish because you got possessed by a fucking demon.”

“Can’t you do something different?” ‘Manehn pleaded. “I mean, what initiation do those with the gift go through? Could I not just do that?”

“No.” Davhalla said. “If you truly want to continue….this is the only way you can do so.”

She turned towards Eshna. “I’ll stay with her.” she offered. “I can watch for the signs. If I sense anything trying to break through, I would be able to halt it.”

“And If I fail, I can kill her.” she continued, prematurely cutting off Eshna’s objections.

Eshna looked towards Davhalla and began to chuckle. “Didn’t even give me a chance to say no….Creators, I always get the most stubborn little shits for apprentices. Fine, you stay with the Inquisitor. And Inquisitor?”

“Yes?”

Eshna turned towards the sound of ‘Manehn’s voice. “You’re damn lucky - for not falling to a demon and stumbling on us in the first place.”

“Right. Lucky me.”

Eshna ignored her sardonic response. “Davhalla, Ellathim and I will make sure you leave here alive. Davhalla’s a Dreamer, so you’ll be fine against the demons. Ellathim and I will handle the agitators.”

As she crawled out of the aravel, she turned back in Davhalla’s direction. “And you are right. Ellathim’s tried, but apparently not hard enough, to shut them up. It’s time I knock some sense into their heads.”

 

* * *

 

Eshna rushed towards the center of the camp, going as fast as her bowed legs and swollen knees could take her, using her staff to force herself forward. She could hear the murmurs of discontent, anger, and mutiny in the still, suffocating summer air. A fair amount of the clan had gathered at the hearth to confront Ellathim, their faces contorted in rage. She heard Fen’an’s voice, full of fire and fury, from across the camp.

“We KNOW that ‘Inquisitor’ is here!” Fen’an stepped forward to face Ellathim, a wicked snarl on his face and his hand on his sword. “You have welcomed a traitor in our midst!”

Eshna glowered as she approached the hearth, and the jeering crowd. Most elves like Fen'an were usually pure pomp and pageantry, only good at chest-beating and empty boasting. Unfortunately, Fen'an was not “most elves”. He could back up his words with his blade, and he hungered to drive his words deep and make his point known.

Ellathim merely glared at the young hunter as he sat by the hearth, unperturbed by this display of defiance. To him, Fen’an’s haughty displays were merely a nuisance. “Do you think your course is wiser, to agitate our people just to drive out a lone elf? She has done nothing to you, or to us. She hasn’t even left the tent since she arrived. I understand your concerns and your frustrations. She will only be here for a one more day, then she will leave. She refuses to offend you with her presence longer than necessary.”

He rose to face him, his beady black eyes boring into Fen’an’s, “Neither Eshna nor I will tolerate an attempt to sow discord, from either the Inquisitor, or from any of you.”

Fen’an laughed in his face. The crowd, and Ellathim, fell silent at this nearly blasphemous response.

“So you admit her presence is offensive, yet you let this traitor hide among us??!!! Did you not hear the news from Val Royeaux, Hahren? Do you not remember the tales you insist on retelling? She spouts lies, twisted some of our own to serve our sworn enemy!”

“Midha, Varla and Tamriel followed him _willingly_.” Eshna began to speak as she finally approached the hearth, her voice booming and resolute but her tone still cool.

Fen'an turned to face her, and flicked his head into the slightest bow at her approach, only enough to show that he knew tradition, not that he respected it. The others did not follow suit. Their mutinous murmuring died at her approach, and everyone else bowed deeply, making sure they showed deference in spite of disagreement.

She continued as she closed in on Fen’an, the heat in her tone beginning to rise and threatening to boil over. “She is the one who leads the fight against the Dread Wolf and his allies, but you’re bitching over some lewd rumors. She ended the shemlen fighting that was costing Dalish lives and rose an elf to nobility, and you were bitching because the elf she raised was a flat-ear. She is the one that closed that demon shitting hole in the sky we were all freaking out over, and you were bitching that she was working with shemlen in the process!”

Fen'an began to fluster. The small insurrection he attempted to raise had been defeated with her approach.

“I will also not tolerate threats or harm to her. Like it or not, she is one of our own. She has done no harm to ANY of us. Save your anger for someone who actually deserves it!”

Fen’an was beaten, but he wasn’t stupid. He prostrated before Keeper Eshna, keep his tone even and respectful.

“Ir abelas. Bel abelas. I forgot my place, and I humbly beg for your forgiveness, mirthadra ghila’ren.”

“Just get up and get going.” Eshna snapped at him. “It’s late, I’m hungry, and I don’t have patience for your tantrums.”

Fen’an scrambled to his feet and made his way to his aravel as the crowd dispersed. He would have preferred to rally the clan, to earn the blessing of the hahrens.

But he could take this matter into his own hands.

 

* * *

 

For hours, there was only silence. ‘Manehn had adjusted herself to a prostrating position before the small fire pit, and spent most of her time trying to refocus her thoughts on the Creators instead of the strange woman who had assigned herself to be ‘Manehn’s protector.

She was familiar, and she tried to place where she had seen her, but her head was still pounding, and any attempt to dredge up memories before she was Herald, Inquisitor or Savior to Orlais were momentarily lost in a dull, painful fog. She refocused herself on her meditations, and the next few hours passed uneventfully as the sun made its descent and the twilight approached.

It was only after the last sun rays had finally given way to starlight than the silence was broken.

“My brother sends his apologies.”

‘Manehn turned towards the source of the voice.

It was Davhalla. She was sitting towards the far end of the aravel, just an arm’s distance away, heating a small tin cup with her hands, surrounded by an assortment of herbs, oils and vials.

“My brother Da'enansal. He didn’t realize who you were at first, not until you said you were from Clan Lavellan. He felt so bad about how he spoke to you before. When he found out it was the Inquisitor….well, he idolizes you.”

‘Manehn bowed her head and smiled back. “Well, tell him I said I accept his apology, that I knows he did not mean it, and that I’m honored that he feels that way.”

Davhalla nodded. “That’s very gracious.” She set the now-steaming tin cup down and picked up a small bunch of herbs, placed them in a pestle and began to grind them into a dry powder. “When he heard about you, a Dalish being worshipped by shemlen, leading the Chantry in a holy war, he thought it was going to change everything. How you could give us a homeland. About how you could fix things, make the Chantry apologize, make the shemlen stop hurting elves.”

She paused briefly to brush her locs from her face, then continued pounding. “He’s too young to remember the Blight, and he doesn’t remember how the Hero of Ferelden promised the same thing. I warned him, but he said ‘well, of course she would break that promise, she’s a shemlen queen. The Inquisitor is one of the People. She’s different!’”

She poured the now-powder into a small pouch. ‘Manehn said nothing, biting her tongue, hoping and praying that this time, that this elf, was different.

“He still hopes so hard that things will be different, even with the Inquisition gone. But it’s almost easier to stay on the outside. To believe you wouldn’t succumb to feeding what oppress you. That’s what the flat ears do, is it not? They are prisoners. And sometimes a prisoner learns to embrace their captivity. It is comfortable, it is secure. And it keeps you alive.”

_And there it is._

‘Manehn shook her head.

“I see how this works,” she said with a small chortle. “For fuck’s sake, you’re EXACTLY like Ellathim, except you hide your barbs behind a pretty smile and backhanded praise.”

“No,” Davhalla said without pause. “Unlike Ellathim, I don’t have time to chide you or snicker at your sour luck. And unlike Fe’nan, I don’t have time for tired and salacious jokes about your relationship to the Dread Wolf. I don’t have time to hear the endless prattle of our peers, who don’t know a damn about failure or sacrifice. And we don’t have time for you to hide in this tent, wallowing over your failures. Not when he plots to destroy us all. And not when you’re the only one who can stop him.”

“Be very careful, Davhalla,” ‘Manehn snapped. “You don’t know anything. About the Inquisition. About what I’ve been forced to do. About the choices I’ve been forced to make.” Her anger began to rise, and her tone increased in turn. “How DARE you compare me to a prisoner! I am not a ‘flat-ear’ and I have not capitulated to anyone. You don’t know a damn thing about me!”

“I know you are angry.” Davhalla said. She handed ‘Manehn the small tin, but ‘Manehn refused it. She sighed and placed the cup next to her. “That thing you fought off, that almost possessed you? That was a spirit of rage.”  


She moved towards ‘Manehn and sat before her, the small pouch of now-crushed herbs and a vial of oil clenched tightly in her hand, “And you have been touched before. By Fear. by Envy and by Pride. You were strong enough to fight and resist. Fighting is all you know. Now you have to decide whether you will walk away and abandon this path to vengeance. Or if you will embrace it.”

Davhalla set the oil and herbs down and lit a small fire within the pit. “I could sense the turmoil within you, what attracted those demons, why those demons wish to feed on your will. You have not changed since before you were last marked with the vallaslin. You’ve continued to stumble. You are lost. Which is why you are here. The fears, the anger, it’s always been there. It is an old pain, clearly visible. And easy to exploit.”

‘Manehn shook her head. “What part of ‘you don’t know me’ are you not getting?” she asked, slightly unnerved but unconvinced.

“I don’t know you,” Davhalla replied as she began pouring oil into her hands, “but I remember the young woman at the last Arlathvhen. Who trailed after Ashalla like a forlorn puppy. Who withered every time Keeper Deshanna’s glanced your way. The young woman who, without something to cling to, merely drifts about this world, lost and lonely, unable to trust her own mind.”

She placed her hands on ‘Manehn’s face, working the oil deep into her skin.

“I see the woman before me, still seeking every comfort she can _possibly_ find. In drink, in bed, in her companions, in work, in battle, everything is merely a distraction or an addiction, something else to feed, hoping it will soothe that rage and despair that still feeds, still keeps her always doubting, always drifting, always questioning her sanity, and her purpose in this world.”

‘Manehn almost wished Ellathim would return. He fed the rage - that bright, burning anger that boiled over, that kept her fighting and thriving under everyone’s harsh and heavy gaze. That anger had sustained her for years.

But Davhalla had stripped her bare. ‘Manehn could see herself reflected in her bright eyes, and she was humiliated. Tears began to pool, but she willed them away. She looked back at Davhalla, but saw only soft and sympathetic eyes, glimmering like obsidian in the light of the fire.

“Don’t confuse being observant for being wise.”

“I only presented what I saw.” Davhalla said, unshaken and assuring. “Your true self. The one you hide from everyone, including yourself. What you do with this information, how you let it guide you on the Vir Elaravel, that is up to you. I know better than to assume the best way to master yourself.”

She placed her hand on ‘Manehn’s shoulder.

“Tonight, reflect on who you will become. Born to the People, the last of the true Elvhen. Reflect on who you aspire to be and what role you will play, as one of the People. Reflect on what makes you Dalish.”

She grabbed the pouch, taking a pinch of the herbs and tossing them on the fire. The fire flashed that familiar shade of green as Davhalla crawled out of the tent.

“Face what you fear, and make your choice. Otherwise, we are all wasting time.”

 

* * *

 

_An elven army, thousands strong, marches across the Dales. A new Exalted March has begun, to reclaim what was theirs, what Andraste had granted, what the Chantry had stolen. For the People who suffered in shemlen cities and the elves exiled into the woods. She will make them pay for a millennia of torment and suffering. Unlike the Chantry and their Maker, her false gods were real. And her cause is righteous._

  
_A triumphant smile spreads across her face. She tried peace, she tried reconciliation, she tried forgiveness. She gave more than the shemlen ever deserved. The Winter Palace burns in front of her, engulfed in roaring, white hot flames that sear the air, bright as the Sunburst. She hears the crackling of burning wood, the screech of bending metal, all the gildings and spoils of Chantry imperialism and Orlesian depravity falling to pieces. That same fire burns in her eyes._

  
_‘Manehn would give her people more than a nation. She will give them an Empire. She will give them Elvhenan reborn, bathed in shemlen blood. She is their Herald. She serves no Maker, serves no shemlen. All would feel her wrath. She would unleash fury and terror on those who provoked it. She would avenge the People and those who dared to cross them. She would kill them all._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translations:
> 
> “Ir abelas. Bel abelas.” = I am sorry. Many apologies.
> 
> "Mirthadra ghila’ren" = lit. "honored guide", an incredibly polite and formal term for any elf in a position of leadership. Very rare to use, and, if not careful, it can be interpreted to be highly sarcastic, and therefore derogatory, implying that the speaker does not recognize the leader as worthy of respect. [non-canonical]


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What was simmering resentment explodes into open conflict as ‘Manehn completes her final trial and prepares to receive her vallaslin.

**“Inquisitor!”**

_‘Manehn bolts from her slumber and turns towards the voice that roused her. It was Josephine, sitting perfectly still despite the rattling of the carriage, hands folded into her lap, a picture of poise and grace._

_“We will be arriving quite soon. Remember, this masquerade may be in your honor, but that doesn’t mean they won’t try to undermine you here ,” she says, “I wish I could implore you to relax and enjoy the celebration.”_

_‘Manehn nods her head and returns to staring out the window. Beggars and barons alike gawk as the carriage passes through the golden Sun Gates that shimmer with unnatural brightness. Music streams from the Grand Cathedral and taverns, meshing and molding in a rapturous cacophony._

_She feels a presence, heavy and inhuman, but intimate and familiar. Her head throbs, and her eyelids feel heavy._

_The carriage stops at the doors of the palace. Empty eyed guards shuffle to the carriage to assist her departure, their movements clumsy and ill-practiced. Music fills the courtyard, surprisingly soothing as hastily rendered nobles shuffle across the gardens._

_Her skin prickles as the guard offers his hand, translucent and the flesh devoid of lines and ridges. She refuses his hand and brushes it aside, and her head throbs harder as soft whispers begin to intrude._

_Josephine remains at her side, still perfectly poised, a small smile still plastered on her face. ‘Manehn turns towards her, eyes narrowed and her hands balled into fists by her sides._

_“What should I expect when these doors open?” she asks._

_Josephine speaks, a slightly malicious echo in her normally soft yet rich timbre, the gentle rolling of her rs replaced with a slight demonic growl._

_“They wish to know you.”_

_As the doors swing open and she enters the ballroom, hundreds of faces slowly turn towards her,  their masks marred with vallaslin._

_‘Manehn stops, her eyes darting towards each face and back….every noble’s mask crudely painted with the laziest parody of the sacred symbols. One approaches with trembling hands and curtsies deeply, her mask - with its lazy loops and swirls - intended to evoke Sylaise. A cruel mockery of Sylaise’s vallaslin. Her vallaslin. The vallaslin erased and replaced with a bare face that flushed from shame when she stormed off and left Solas with his empty apologies._

_Bitter irony on top of grave insult._

_“A shame to see your face bare for this event,” the noble whispers, her barbed words cutting deep. ‘Manehn’s chest tightens, her hands shaking as the room starts to spin. The noble grabs her arm, her pallid claws sink deep and pulls ‘Manehn back towards the center of the ballroom where empty eyes and bared teeth wait expectantly to feed._

_‘Manehn pulls the noble towards her, throwing her off balance and knees her in the stomach. The noble hisses as she crumples, her mask falling off._

_It is an elf._

_Her skin is tattered and desiccated, pulled tight across her fractured and flame-seared face, hair melted and melded to the caved-in skull, black ichor dripping from the abscesses in her skin and her empty eye sockets._

_She shrieks and the nobles swarm towards ‘Manehn, a mass of pulsating and rotting flesh, crawling and clawing across the floor on hands and knees. The  screeches of despair and the scraping of nails on marble pierce the silence. The stench of carrion and decay, the leaking of blood and crunch of bone overwhelm._

_She sprints towards the doors, ignoring Josephine’s shrill laughter._

_The doors give way to an abyss and she falls, down, down, down into dark depths until she hits the ground with a hard thud._

_She scrambles to her feet and comes face to face with Briala, turned to stone, cracked and crumbling. Statues litter the grove, every ally and friend turned to stone, faces contorted in in tortured and pained expressions, the suffering inflicted as they turned, slowly chipping away, turning to dust as the mirage begins to shift and the true Fade begins to reveal itself._

_The mark reacts, pulsing like a fast-beating heart and she falls to her knees, tears streaming down her cheeks and fever blurring her vision. Every contraction claws deep, deep, deep into her muscles and her bones, a pain as searing and blinding as the tendrils of green light, the tears in her skin that trace the lines of her veins, that sunder the skin with every pulse. She drags herself away, nails digging deep, clawing against rock, unable to fight, forced to flee. She has to get away, has to…._

_A hand grabs her hair and pulls her upright. A pale hand takes her wrist and twists her around while the other wraps tight around her throat. She comes face to face with a Bringer of Nightmares, a monster wearing a lover’s face.  She twitches, tries to to pull herself free but the mark flares, makes her weak, steals her breath._

_He lets her go and she crumples to the ground, fever spreading through her body, setting her skin hot to the touch. The grass beings to burn under her fingers. She feels a flicker of flame within like worms writhing under her skin, a bubbling rage burning, building, desperate to burst forth. She laughs with satanic mirth, her lips shaped into a snarl, dripping with blood and bile, and she wants to give in, lunge forth, tear him limb from limb, soak in the blood, seek her Vengeance._

_A blinding white lights burst forth like a blast of cold wind, purging the flame that fills her._

* * *

**“Inquisitor!”**

‘Manehn bolted upright from her slumber, blood and bile seeping from the corners of her mouth, being dabbed away with soft cloth by a shaky hand. A pile of bitter black vomit laid next to her, assailing her nostrils. She collapsed and clutched her stomach, still searing, still churning, and still ready to retch back up what little remained. Davhalla’s hands, cold and clammy, held her until the pain subsided.

“Well, that was…interesting.” Davhalla finally said, wiping sweat from her brow. “Non-mages don’t usually attract such powerful demons.”

“I…..thank you…” ‘Manehn said, her voice raspy and raw, unsure of what to say.

Davhalla shrugged. “Don’t mention it,” she said,“This was expected, and most importantly, you’ll be alright.”

“Besides the ‘attracting demons’ thing, I guess,” ‘Manehn retorted.

“Unless you plan on repeating these trials again, I wouldn’t worry too much about that,” Davalla said. “And you shouldn’t need to, since technically, you passed.”

“Technically?”

“You’re not really supposed to need help, but we’ve had to make quite a few exceptions of late.”

Davhalla made her way towards the entrance of the aravel. 

“Go to the Keeper’s aravel as soon as possible and we’ll meet you there with water and the sacred inks. The application should be far less arduous than these three days….if Eshna permits it.” 

Davhalla turned once more towards ‘Manehn as she lifted the curtain to leave.  
“And please do get some fresh air. You need it, and you’ll feel better.”

‘Manehn gave a weak acknowledgment as Davhalla departed, distracted by the whispers of the Well, and perturbed that they remained stronger than normal after the visceral flashbacks of her vision began to fade.

The whispers did not abate. They were a constant presence, an itch in the back of her brain that she could usually ignore, a constant reminder that she was eternally bound.

Bound to Mythal, to the Divine, to the whims of shemlen nobles, to spend her life in battle against would-be-gods attempting to destroy the world.

Bound to her mistakes.

Bound to her failures.

And to think of a time when she was unbound - when she was free to make choices without restraint or remorse - slipped from memory. All that remained were static images clouded by the weight of the titles of Herald, Inquisitor, and Right Hand. 

A time before the Inquisition, a time when she chose the vallaslin of the Goddess of the Hearth, a time when her clan was alive, a time when she woke every morning to the prodding and pleading of her baby sister to play with her…all were replaced by a dark haze that left her numb.

Tears welled at the corners of her eyes. The grief, the emptiness, the racing thoughts that plagued her waking moments, that compelled her to take extra wine to sleep, to hope that this sleep would be eternal, that she would waste away into oblivion…these thoughts plagued her more than any vision, than any whisper from the Well. 

Tears came faster and she curled into a ball, her weak body shaking from her deep sobbing.

* * *

Back at the camp, Fen’an stormed towards the Inqusitor’s aravel, along with two other hunters, while Da’enansal trailed after him, begging for rationality.

“There’s no point, Fen’an!,” he pleaded, “She hasn’t bothered you. She’s never even left the aravel! Leave her alone!”

“Shut up, runt!” Fen’an snapped, prodding a finger into Da’enansal’s chest. “You’re freshly marked and already you think you can tell _me_ what to do?”

“Yes I can!,” Da’enansal said. “I can tell you that you’re disobeying the Keeper, the First, AND the Hahren, and that Davhalla will make sure you get exiled if you start another fight.”

Fen’an laughed while the other hunters jeered. “You threaten to tattle to your sister? Alright, go then! Go run away and cry while your betters show you how to be a real Dalish hunter!” 

Da’enasal stood higher and squared his shoulders. “No,” he said, a blush rising in his cheeks and his voice shaking, “I want to see you turn around and go back to the camp.”

Fen’an stopped and glared at him, pulling a small dagger from his belt.

“Ok then,” he said, brandishing the dagger with a snarl,  “How about you make me?”

Da’enasal’s eyes widened and his hands began to shake, his breath quickening every time the dagger began to gleam in the sunlight, but he remained resolute.  
Fen’an waited for a moment, eyes narrowed. 

“Pathetic,” Fen’an said as he sheathed his dagger, “It seems I am the only one that actually values the safety of the clan over capitulating to a traitor. When we end up like Clan Lavellan, ask the Keeper if it’s worth it, if both of you are even still alive.”

Da’enansal said nothing as he turned and raced back towards the camp.

* * *

After composing herself, ‘Manehn finally crawled out of the aravel. Her eyes teared up the second she pulled back the red muslin cloth that covered the entrance, straining to see in the blinding sunlight. Three days in the cramped aravel, by the shrine dedicated to her gods, left her legs weak and wobbly and her back, spoiled by years of down mattresses, sore and tense. 

Despite the physical and mental pain of the past few days, she still smiled as she took a breath of crisp air, untainted by the smell of incense, sweat and vomit. This was as close to a peaceful moment as she had in weeks, these moments becoming less frequent and more fleeting, and the chance to cherish this one was a welcome relief.

Her heart sank when she turned and saw three hunters approaching, armed for not for protection, but for battle, but she remained where she was, her hand searching for the dagger she kept on her belt. She preferred to stay her hand, especially near this sacred space, but if they wanted a fight, she would indulge them.

Fen’an and his accomplices strutted up to her, closing the gap, their chests puffed with youthful bravado.

“You’re the Inquisitor.”  Fen’an said. 

Not a question, but a statement.

“Yes,” ‘Manehn said, with a smirk. These were young hunters, she noted, more bluster than bite, and more prepared to trade words than cross blades. And there was no point in lying to them now.

“Savior of the shemlen,”  Fen’an said derisively, “But what about your clan? You could save some worthless shemlen nobles, but you couldn’t save your own people?”

‘Manehn bristled at their obvious goading, her chest tightening as they taunted her, straining to control the rage that began to bubble in her blood. 

“If you want a real fight, you would use your blade instead of cowering behind your words,” she snapped, her breath heavy and heated, “but you don’t have the skill or courage to challenge me.”

“I’ve said barely a word, and already you threaten to turn on your own,” Fen’an scoffed, “Not surprising, coming from the Dread Wolf’s ally.”

“His ally?” one of the others joked, “More like his whore –”

In a blink, the hunter was on the ground from ‘Manehn’s fist, spitting out blood and bone from a busted lip and a broken tooth. 

Fen’an lunged at her and grabbed the empty pinned sleeve on her left side, throwing her to the ground. He drew his sword and pinned ‘Manehn with her foot, planted deep on her stomach, making her wheeze. She fumbled for her dagger while he stood over her, eager to bloody his blade.

“Barely a hunter and barely an elf. I should put you out of your misery.”

Her fingers found her dagger and she sank her blade into his calf.  

Fen’an fell back and collapsed on the ground, dropping his sword and clutching at the gaping wound, howling from the pain as blood spurted from the deep gash. 

She rolled to the side and sprang up. “Turn back, now,” she said to the other hunters, her teeth bared and her dagger still in hand, dripping with Fen’an’s blood, “before I maim both of you as well.” 

The other hunters lunged towards her, drawing their blades. 

‘Manehn moved to parry their blows, but the hunters froze before her, eyes darting wildly in terror as they strained to move muscle and bone, struggling against the spell that had bound them. She tried to move but the same arcane cage left her muscles rigid.

“ **UNACCEPTABLE!!!** ” 

Davhalla was sprinting towards them, fury in her eyes. Da’enansal followed, the Keeper holding his shoulder and hobbling beside him. 

She kneeled besides Fen’an and placed her hands on the wound, her healing magic stitching the skin and sinew together while her eyes shimmered with unbridled rage.

“How DARE you?!” she screamed at a still-whimpering Fen’an as she finished healing him and jerked him to his feet. She turned towards ‘Manehn and the hunters, “This is…this is appalling.”

The Keeper did not speak, but the dark glint in her eyes said enough. 

Davhalla flicked her wrist, releasing the hunters and ‘Manehn from their arcane bindings. ‘Manehn picked her dagger off the ground, gently sheathed it and said nothing, keeping her eyes downcast. 

The hunters scurried towards Fen’an’s side as limped towards the Keeper.  
“You’re kidding, right?,” he cried, throwing his hands in the air, “You’ll let Davhalla talk to me like this?! She STABBED me, you -”

Eshna raised her hand to cut him off. “I know. And that’s what you get for trying to start shit. Da’enansal, make sure these idiots make it back to the camp. I’ll deal with them later.”

Fen’an and the hunters glared at Davhalla as they stormed off, Da’enansal trailing behind them. 

Davhalla glanced at ‘Manehn then turned towards Eshna. 

“You let Fen’an start a fight,” she said.

“And she finished it,” Eshna retorted, “Even me sealing them in a aravel can’t stop them if they wanted a fight that badly…and where the hell is she?”

‘Manehn stepped forward, still staring at the ground, her breath shallow and a hard lump beginning to form in her throat.

“First of all, I get it,” Eshna said, turning towards the sound of ‘Manehn’s footsteps. “Fen’an a squirrelly lil shit and I’m sure half the clan wants to stab him too…but you shouldn’t have taken the bait, Inquisitor.”

Davhalla scoffed at Eshna’s reprimand. “So she should have let him kill her, then?”

“No, that’s not what I’m saying, and you damn well know it, Davhalla,” she snapped, “but if she outran a darkspawn magister with a Blight-corrupted dragon at Haven, I’m sure she can outrun a fucking hunter with halla shit for brains and his little minions.”

‘Manehn remained silent, unsure of how to act, what to say, and scared to test whether she would break under this scrutiny.

Eshna paused for a moment in deep contemplation while Davhalla stood beside her, arms folded and still scowling. Eventually, Eshna spoke.

“Maybe we should abandon this endeavor…”

“NO!” ‘Manehn shouted. She started to shake, her voice cracking. “I didn’t come here to be sent away with NOTHING! I can’t…”

She raced to the Keeper and took her hands.

“Give me whatever punishment you wish, demand exile if you must, ask for reparations and I will pay them, but please do not deny me this…” she pleaded, “I _beg_ you.”

Eshna patted her face and clicked her tongue.

“Alright, alright, don’t start with waterworks, da’len,” she said, “You went through a lot to get here, but I can’t ignore what you did to Fen’an…So we’ll apply the vallaslin and I’m not gonna invoke exile…” 

“Ma serannas, I am grateful…,” ‘Manehn said with a deep bow.

“But,” Eshna continued, “I AM gonna have to ask you to leave. And to not come back. Ever.”

‘Manehn froze, for only a moment, before shaking her head in resignation, “I understand. Thank you.”

Eshna nodded and placed both hands on her shoulders, giving a gentle, grateful squeeze. “I have to keep the peace, da’len. And things explode around you. I have a clan to protect in some pretty dark times. Ain’t a damn Blight, but it’s close enough. And you have a world to save, so we’ll all do better if you stay with the shemlen. Even if, well, _some_ of us will miss you.”

She clapped her hands together and breathed a sigh of relief. “Now, let’s get you marked and get you the hell out of here before someone else besides to start shit.”

* * *

‘Manehn, Davhalla and Eshna made their way to the Keeper’s aravel, all completely speechless to match the solemnity of the ritual, of what had transpired, of what was to come.

As they ducked inside, ‘Manehn came face-to-face with Hahren Ellathim, cleaning the razors, arranging inks and prepping the needles for the ceremony.

“He’s doing it?!” ‘Manehn said, with disgust.

“Trust me, the feeling is mutual,” Ellathim said, his tone matching hers.

“So you’re actually gonna put vallaslin? I’m not gonna get a looking glass and see a giant phallus instead, right?”

“Keep talking to me like that, child, and I just might.”

“Alright, both of you shut the hell up,” Eshna said, cutting both of them off, “just put the shit on her face and get her sent off before more hunters try something stupid.”

“Lay down, and we will begin the preparations,” Eshna said to ‘Manehn, as Davhalla lit incense and began to sing the sacred hymms, her rich low timbre echoing in the small, sacred space. But ‘Manehn felt no reprive, felt no calling.

She felt nothing but emptiness and despair. 

She closed her eyes and focused on the hahren’s hard hands that held a razor to her scalp, shaving away her thick silky strands, the years that passed unmarked. 

In this sacred space, she would be reborn, made anew, reshaped and remolded.  
And when the last strand fell away, the Keeper finally spoke and Davhalla’s song faded to a low hum.

“Tell me,” Eshna began, her voice booming and regal, ringing with the weight of ages and authority, “who do you pledge to serve with eternal devotion? Which of our gods speaks to you, guides you, leads you? Who praises shall you sing, deeds you shall exalt for all of the ages? Tell me, elvhen, who calls to you?”

Without hesitation, ‘Manehn spoke his name, all doubt purged, the emptiness replaced with nothing but pure devotion that filled and sated her, that cleared the doubts that swirled within her, that silenced even the whispers that gnawed at the edges of her consciousness.

The hahren’s hands were rough and calloused. From the Keeper and the First, there was no soft, soothing words, no affirmations or well wishes.  
This was a re-initiation.

Each time the needle jabbed deeper into the skin, it pierced deep and hidden hurts under her calm veneer. Each stab of the needle felt like a lashing. She would pay for every Dalish elf lying dead outside the gates of Wycome. She would pay for every lingering glance and stolen kiss from the Lord of Tricksters.  
The ritual took hours, the hahren’s hand slowly shaping the vallaslin, the Keeper holding her head steady, her grip slightly softening as the vallaslin took shape. She had not cried out, she had not resisted, she had suffered and she had endured.

As she always had done.

The soft curls of Sylaise she carried before were replaced by sharp points and twisting vines that curved wickedly at the corners of her lips and eyes. Her face pulsed with pain but her heart swelled with pride. Her lips parted into a small smile with a hint of a snarl. 

The Vir Atish’an lay in ruins. The path of peace had failed her. She felt no more grief at the loss of the vallaslin that marked her as Sylaise’s slave, as her follower.

These she would keep. She would honor their meaning, and she would follow the path of this god, false or not. What this new god represents now speaks to her, and embodies her. She would lead by example, and if he could no longer speak to the elves, she would speak for him, an emulation of him in his full glory.  

Elgar’nan, First of the Evanuris, Leader of the Pantheon, God of Vengeance. 

All would know her fury. All would feel her rage.

Her enemies would pay the price in blood.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This took way, way, WAY too long (8 months, to be precise - and almost a year in progress from start to finish), but it’s finally done. This is the final part of what was a germ of an idea, a Lavellan who removes her vallaslin and later regrets it, and ballooned into something much more than that.
> 
> Please leave comments and kudos if you enjoyed this, and thanks to everyone who stuck with me through start to finish.


End file.
